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FFFFFIIIIIVEVEVEVEVETHE AGE OF HOSPITALITY

This is a small part of the story of St. Andrew’s fromthe time of the death of William Jones Weeks in 1897until the death of Clara Winslow Weeks in 1929. Thistime frame highlights the fact that Clara received fromher father the mantle of responsibility for St. Andrew’s.Certainly there were other pillars of strength during thatperiod, but Clara was a very exceptional woman, andour knowledge of the contribution of others is sparse.The originally planned title for this chapter was “Clara:Both Mary and Martha”. There is no question but thatshe was a fervent disciple of Jesus, both spiritual andpractical. She was an artist, a poet, a teacher, a respected

member of the community, and a foster parent to many children. Unmarried,she took on the task of caring for her aging parents, and subsequently inherited“The Lilacs” from them.

Clara Weeks was the hostess of St. Andrew’s, and in many ways, of Yaphankitself. One of her creations was a framed message to those who spent time in herhome:

“For the Guests of this House” “Let the guests sojourning here know that in this home our life is simple. What we cannotafford we do not offer, but what good cheer we can give, we give gladly. We make no strife forappearance sake. Know also, friends, that we live a life of labor, that we may not neglect it;therefore if at times we separate ourselves from you, do you occupy yourself according to yourheart’s desire, being sure that no slight to your presence is intended. For, while you are with uswe would have you enjoy the blessings of a home, health, love and freedom, and we pray thatyou may find the final blessing of life. Peace. In this house you may meet those not of your own sort. They may differ from you in nation-ality, position, possessions, education or affinity, but we are maintaining here a small part of theworld’s great future democracy. We ask of you therefore courtesy and tolerance for all alike. And on these stern terms, though you be young or old, proud or plain, rich or poor, resting hereyou are a partaker of our love, and we give you glad welcome.”

Nathalie Lawless Dickieson (1887-1986)provided a summary of her aunt’s life forthis history:

“Clara Winslow Weeks was born on September15, 1860, ... the eighth child of William Jones Weeksand his wife Mary Croswell Weeks, who was a lin-eal descendant of Kenelm Winslow, the brother ofEdward Winslow, the Governor of Plymouth Colonyin 1633.

“Clara was naturally left-handed but was forcedto use her right hand in school; consequently shebecame ambidextrous and I have seen her paint ordraw using either hand. She collected Kate

Clara Winslow Weeks, 1883

Phote given to her aunt,

Eleanor Jones Smith

Clara Winslow Weeks on front porch of

the Lilacs

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Greenaway books and ornaments and painted posters with Greenaway children to delight herfriends. In 1888, she wrote, illustrated and published a book, “The Story of a China Plate”,using the English Willow pattern china.

“During her entire life, Clara devoted time and energy in the service of the small church, St.Andrew’s, which her grandparents ... were instrumental in erecting. Since the parish was toopoor to support an ordained minister, the theological seminary in New York sent out a priest toconduct Sunday services.

“During the summer months, when the seminary was closed, Clara requested that a student besent to spend the summer as her guest in order to hold Sunday services and prayer meetings inthe church. It must have helped the young men, for many of them went on to become bishopsand canons in the Episcopal Church. They never forgot her kindnesses and many came back tosee her in later years. One year, she was the guest of honor at a diocesan convention in Albany,the only woman present. “My mother always took us, as children, to spend the summer vacationwith her sister Clara. It was a happy time, for Aunt Clara had a great sense of humor and was awonderful story teller.

“Clara Winslow Weeks died on July 31, 1929 in Yaphank, and was buried in the family plot atSt. Andrew’s churchyard. My mother, Julia Lawless Weeks, provided in her will the means tocommission a stained glass window in memory of Clara. She was greatly loved by all whoknew her, including her niece, Nathalie Lawless Dickieson.”

A DAY ETCHED IN MEMORY FOREVER Some years after the event, Nathalie wrote a moving account of a great forest

fire, probably the one described in the June 25, 1908 Brooklyn Eagle whichburned over 1000 acres, threatening “The Lilacs”, St. Andrew’s and all ofYaphank. Her story, “A Day Etched in Memory Forever”, was edited, with com-mentary, by Fr. Chapin, and published in the Summer 1990 issue of the “LongIsland Forum”. The heart of the story is included here to provide a look at livingconditions and the character of the real people who lived here — even in theirtimes of crisis:

“Everywhere on earth springtime is beautiful, but for me no other place holds the enchant-ment that does a small, sleepy village in the center of Long Island. Memories of childhood,girlhood and young womanhood are deeply rooted in its sandy soil. After many years I canclose my eyes and smell the sharp, sweet fragrance of trailing arbutus and the delicate odor oflong stemmed wood violets. Meadow larks sing at dawn and the whippoorwill calls plaintivelywhen the evening star shines in the darkening sky. The air is sweet with the scent of pines andthe tang of salt from the Great South Bay. Only young love is more desired than spring.

“One springtime many years ago, my fiancé and I went to that small town to spend the week-end with my Aunt Clara. She was an unmarried, elderly woman, but no dried up old maid,rather a gay, stout, energetic person with a decided twinkle in her eyes, a merry retort on hertongue and an excellent flair for cooking. Nowhere in the world have we eaten such popovers,pies or sponge cakes.

“Aunt Clara lived in the old, rambling, colonial house built by my great grandfather. It con-tained twenty rooms, the double parlors filled with old mahogany and rosewood furniture fromEngland, pier-glass mirrors and flowered carpets from France. Franklin fireplaces with theirbrass andirons and fenders shone in each principal room. My aunt’s household that springconsisted of an ancient handyman who fed the chickens, raked a bit and weeded the gardenpatch; also a young maid named Ophelia and her small baby Johnny.

“Great Grandfather, with his wealth and pride, built a house not to be sneezed at by commonfolk — yet with no thought of conveniences or comforts as we know them today. They were noteven dreamed of as necessary at that time. We went to bed by candlelight. The big, drafty

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kitchen held a monster stove which devoured cord wood winter and summer. Hot water camefrom a ten-gallon tank on the monster’s side. The source of water was a well outside the kitchendoor. That well was our only means of getting water on that exciting and terrifying day so longago.

“The old house stood at the extreme east end of the village; south of the house the roadwound through the woods to the next town. Across the road was an eight-acre field in whichcorn was always planted. East of the house were the chicken-house and runs, the ice house, astore house for farm tools, and a meadow with a grove of black cherry trees. To the north lay thekitchen gardens and berry bushes. To the west, the great barns, stables and carriage-house.Beyond the cleared fields on three sides stood the pine forest, dense with the growth of a cen-tury.

“Many times I have walked through the forest in spring and summer, following half-obliter-ated Indian trails, over a carpet of pine needles. About three miles into the woods on a small hillstood a surveyor’s old tower. How I used to delight in climbing up the rickety ladder to sit on thecrossbeam at the top and feel the tower rock in the wind, to see the tops of the pines like a greatgreen sea spread below me - a slight solace to the blood of my adventurous ancestors.

“Dick and I arrived in time for supper on a Friday night, full of joy at being away from thecity, and the prospect of being together for two whole days. We planned to get up at five o’clockthe next morning to go out and shoot crows. As I look back, I wonder just why that should haveseemed such a desirable and reasonable idea. But at five we were up. tiptoeing through thesilent house armed with a 22 rifle and a cake of milk chocolate. Of our walk in the woods Iremember little except that we shot at a few crows and that they flew off cawing in a superciliousand sneering manner. We sat on a log and ate the chocolate and wished it was time for breakfast.Coming back we noticed that the air was hazy, a smell of wood-smoke filled the air, and the sunlooked like a huge, copper penny hung in the sultry sky. The birds flew silently through thetrees, three rabbits and some grey squirrels scurried past. As we came to the road an old turtlewaddled ahead toward the corn field.

“At breakfast, Aunt Clara looked very worried and said, “Nathalie, I wish you and Dick wouldstay close to the house this morning. I think the woods are on fire somewhere east of us, andwith this wind blowing it makes me rather anxious.” About eleven o’clock when Dick wasshowing me how to clean the gun, I looked up and saw that the air was a peculiar orange color.A charred leaf blew against the window and we heard my aunt calling “Come here quickly; Ineed you!” We rushed downstairs to see clouds of smoke in the east and burnt leaves flying allaround us. “Get the three big tubs out of the storehouse and fill them with water, while I go tothe village store to telephone for help,” said my aunt as she dashed off on her bicycle.

“We filled two tubs and had started to fill the third when the bucket came up half full of sand.We had drawn water faster than the spring could maintain a level. As I looked toward the forestmy heart almost stopped and my stomach felt like a vacuum. Great sheets of flame soared andcrackled thirty feet above the trees, huge burning branches, torn from the giant pines by thewind, flew over the fields. We ran to the barn for ladders. One went up to the extension kitchenroof, which was shingled. Dick climbed to the second story. Fortunately, part of the house hada tin roof, which had been put over the old shingles.

“I called to Ophelia only to discover that she had gone to bed with her baby and pulled theblankets over their heads. I jerked her out of there in a hurry and saying, “If you want to saveyour baby, you’ve got to help save the house.” A very frightened girl answered “Yes Mam”, asI told her to pass me pails of water up to the kitchen roof. By this time the well had filled againand the old gardener drew more water. I took off my shoes so I wouldn’t slip, and climbed to thekitchen roof. How long I stood there throwing water on sparks and dodging flaming branches,I’ll never know. Time went on while I stood in a furnace with my eyes glued to the shingles, andthrew water wondering how long we could hold out. Once, a great brown owl flapped past

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blinking his eyes, looking strangely like a worried professor I once had in one of my historyclasses. Across the north pasture I caught a glimpse of a doe, with two fawns, racing toward theriver to the south.

“Suddenly, Aunt Clara was back with seven men from the village. More men were hurryingto the south and north to set backfires. Somehow I got my shaking knees off the roof and downthe ladder and went into the house to help my aunt to take the beautiful old family portraits ofmy ancestors off the walls and down the steep cellar stairs of the milk room, which had a vaultedbrick ceiling. There too we carried the silver, made in colonial times, precious with age andfamily traditions. Aunt Clara brought out her strongbox with the deeds to house and land; Thiswe buried near the kitchen door, under a lilac bush. Just as we finished, a grey fox ran throughthe garden and snatched a fat turkey gobbler. I was suddenly so mad that I yelled, “Drop that!”,as I hurled my spade at him. He dropped the turkey and fled with his tail between his legs, butthe turkey’s neck had been wrung with neatness and dispatch.

“Then we realized that, as quickly as it had come, the fire had swept past us. We stopped tolook about out of smoke-reddened eyes. I remembered that the last time I had seen Dick he wason the upper part of the house, pulling water up in a pail with a rope. My heart almost stopped.Where was he? Had he slipped and fallen off the roof? Then through the lilac bushes, on thepath from the barn, I saw him coming, tall, thin and dear. But as he came closer I didn’t knowwhether to laugh or to cry. His face was streaked with soot, his eye brows singed and his handsblistered, but he looked at me and laughed. “Nat, you should see yourself; you look like achimney-sweep!” I glanced down at my pink, chambray dress. It was full of tiny burnt holesand my hands were black. Perhaps it was just as well that I couldn’t see my face. Aunt Claracalled from the kitchen door. “Do you know that it is after five o’clock? Would you two likesome coffee and sandwiches?” While we were eating, Dick told us that he had gone to help themen at the barn, which had caught fire twice and had only been put out in the nick of time. Alucky thing, for the mow was full of hay. If our barn had really burned, we might not have beenable to save the next neighbor’s house.

“Later we learned that one man had lost 30 cords of wood, cut but not hauled out of the forest,and that the fire, driven by the high winds, had burned thirty-five miles of timber in seven hours.For us, the worst was apparently over, but though I slept that night from complete exhaustion,my aunt sat up all night with a pail of water on either hand and patrolled the house and gardenevery hour. Burning stumps glowed wickedly through the charred woods and were a potentialsource of more disaster. The next morning when we woke up, what a scene of devastation layaround us! Gaunt, blackened branches were all that was left of the waving, green pine trees, likegiant arms stretched to heaven for release from torture. No one walked in the woods that yearunless he had to, for he came out covered with soot and sickened by the sight of small furrybodies that had been too late to reach a haven.

“Time passes and the forest around Yaphank is green once more. Though I should live to bean old, old lady, the memory of that frightening day will be etched in my mind as deeply as thescars on the ancient trees.”

Clara’s courage and decisiveness was evident during the crisis. She was ableto organize the effort to save the house and barns and to maintain a cool headthroughout. Although there was no mention of danger to the church in Nathalie’saccount, it is possible that the backfires and efforts to save the barns and stablealso protected the church.

The Lilacs did burn down many years later, and family members differ as tothe cause. One account is that the fire was caused by lightning, and anotherclaims that leaves were burned too close to the building. Significantly, the dif-ferences reflected the feuding branches of the family following the death ofClara. Gus Neuss, who was one of the volunteer firefighters responding to that

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fire, said that there was a broken gas pipe and that the house was repeatedlyengulfed in flames which were fed by the gas. Bricks from the five chimneyswere later used in the construction of a home now located on the site of the“Lilacs”.

According to a July 1987 article in the Long Island Forum, 1930 was a recordyear for fires in Suffolk County, with almost 22,000 acres burned. GovernorFranklin D. Roosevelt appointed a committee, headed by Robert Moses, to de-velop strategies to prevent major fires. One measure was the erection of addi-tional watchtowers, including one 30 foot tower on a 150 foot rise at CampUpton, Yaphank.

FIRST LADY OF YAPHANKLate in life, Clara wrote a brief history of St. Andrew’s Church, including the

text of the consecration address of Bishop Littlejohn which appears in a previ-ous chapter. We have a copy of an article and picture appearing in the PatchogueAdvance, 1929, about the 100 year old two-horse carriage belonging to Clara.The covered carriage was purchased by her grandfather James while living inOyster Bay in 1828. He used it there and in New York City, his son Williamused it all his life, and Clara learned to drive it as a little girl. The same carriageappears in the Estate Inventory of Reginald Weeks, Executer of Clara’s estateand signed by his sister Laura.

At least two local residents recalled that the children of Yaphank called Clara“Miss Tee Hee Hee”, both to imitate her laugh and to acknowledge her cheerypersonality. Ada Albertina Davis Norcross (“Aunt Ada”) was a young adult, andOlive Williams was a young girl when Clara still rode her bicycle from theLilacs to the general store. Clara raised four foster children: Frank Mapes, BillyHarris, Winnie and Marie Schenk. The two girls, whose mother had died, werefrom Holland. All four children were confirmed in 1926, just three years beforeClara died. Clara often invited children from the neighborhood to the “Lilacs”to play card games - “500” and “Little and Big Casino”. Ada recalled that theoctagon school was called “the cheese box”, had separate outhouses for boysand girls, a central wood stove, and a woodshed. She verified a story from GladysHamner that, when naughty, they often hid from their parents under the schoolsteps. Gus Neuss recalled being required to sing “Sweet Hour of Prayer” everymorning in school. He said it took months before he realized it wasn’t about apraying owl, as in “Sweet Owl of Prayer.”

Gus and his sister, Olive Williams, participated in an oral history session on asunny summer afternoon in August of 1990, while he was visiting from Ohio.They both had clear memories of Clara Weeks from the days of their childhood.There was her wardrobe — long dresses, with high lace collars - right out of the1880’s while living in the 1920’s. Dressed this way, she rode her bicycle aroundtown, sporting a wooden rack over the back wheel for carrying groceries, etc.Gus was a guest in “The Lilacs” many times and remembers the cakes served tothe children. Orphaned children from the County Children’s Home were some-times there also. Clara would bring out the freshly baked cake, with little piecesof candy on the icing, and proceed to cut tiny slices. He believes that she couldget “a hundred slices” out of one cake. Her grandniece Jean Croswell RogersCahn told a story passed down in her family, that for a practical joke whilepreparing breakfast for her boarders, Aunt Clara placed a piece of flannel ineach pancake. Gus remembered plowing the field across the road for Clara’s

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garden. He said that on Hallowe’en in 1920, some of the local “barbarians”opened the flume at the bottom of lower lake, making the large buzz saw at themill rotate so fast that the sound could be heard all over Yaphank.

Ada remembered more about the second generation of our “first family”, muchof which was verified by Olive. While Clara lived in the “Lilacs”, several otherslived in or visited the octagon house. James and Antoinette seemed to be regularinhabitants or visitors. He was a house painter. Archie was a lawyer by profes-sion, but was better known as the family eccentric. He was interested in manytypes of bugs, and reportedly enjoyed letting some of them out while riding outfrom the city on the LIRR. In later years, he lived in a shack near the cranberrybog, and was not inclined to wear clothes. Eventually, Ada’s father, who wasthe constable, transported him, stark naked, to Central Islip State hospital wherehe died in 1927. She did not tell this writer what happened to Archie’s wifeEvelyn. Apparently, when Archie and Reggie were living in the octagon, theythrew all their soup cans down the cellar stairs - “enough to sink a ship!”. Someof those rusted cans were still there when confirmation classes went on fieldtrips to explore the foundation in the 1980’s. Harriet “Hallie”, who lived inBellport, was a taxidermist and drove an early electric car. Reginald worked fora book company in New York City.

Unfortunately, as in the case of too many families, Clara’s death brought to anend the center of the family and any pretense of unity. As in too many families,William and Mary’s remaining children split into two camps and litigation overthe estate led to a protracted battle and permanent alienation. We have manyrecords as evidence. One positive result is a historian’s dream: the legacy ofseveral comprehensive lists of household contents, both for the Lilacs and forthe octagon house. Also, in the writing of this history, we are grateful that manyof the primary documents have been forthcoming from both sides of the divide.Incidentally, “Aunt Ada”, in an oral history session with this writer before herdeath in 1990, recalled many of the families that lived along Mill Road andMain Street during the early 20th century.

The Lilacs